The Star Fox

The connection was made at once. “MDS Quest of the U.S.A.,” said a mild young man. “Captain Gutierrez is still busy, sir, but I can switch you to Dr. Bragdon. He’s the head of the scientific team.”

The release was like a blow. Heim sagged in his suit. “You’re only here to make studies, then?”

“Yes, sir, for the University of Hawaii, under contract to the Federation Research Authority. One moment, please.”

The screen flickered to a view of a cabin, crowded with references both full-size and micro. The man in the foreground was also young, husky, with black hair and cragged profile. “Victor Bragdon speaking,” he said, and then, his mouth falling open, “Good heavens! Aren’t you Gunnar Heim?”

The privateer captain didn’t reply. His own astonishment was too much. The woman behind Bragdon leaned over the man’s shoulder and met Heim’s stare with wide hazel eyes. She was tall; an informal gray zipsuit clung to a figure strong and mature. Her face had strength too, rather than conventional good looks: straight nose, wide mouth, arching bones, framed by curly chestnut hair. But some years back it had, troubled his sleep. When he saw the name Jocelyn Lawrie on the letterhead of a flyer from World Militants for Peace, an old hurt awakened, and he went on still more intensely with his preparations for war.

Surprise faded. Suspicion tightened his muscles. “What are you doing here?” he rapped.

II

Afterward he remembered with irony and sadness how careful he had been. Pleading an urgent requirement for his presence on Fox II, he raised his yacht within .the hour. But Koumanoudes volunteered to stay behind, aboard the Quest on a “courtesy call.” Heim knew the Greek had done a good: job of preliminary arrangement-making on Staurn; how good he would be with his fellow humans was uncertain, but there was scant choice. It had to be him or Wong, the only ones who spoke the local language fluently and hence could use the spaceport’s eavesdrop-proof maser line.

His report came after two watches. “They’re clean, skipper. I was toured around the whole ship and talked to everybody. There’re five in the crew, plus captain, mate, and C.E. They’re plain spacehands, who signed on for this cruise the same as they would for any other exploratory trip. You can’t fake that. Anybody who’s so good an actor works on 3V, not in the black.”

“They don’t have to act,” Heim said. “They only have to wear a poker face.”

“But these bucks didn’t. They swarmed over me, asking every kind of question about us. On the whole, they thought we had a hell of a fine idea here. A couple of them wished they’d joined us.”

“Uh-huh. I’m not surprised. The common man often shows more common sense than the intellectual elite. But wait, now, do you include their officers in this?”

“The engineer, yes. Captain Gutierrez and the first officer … well, they were stiff as meteorite plating. I don’t know what they think. Probably they don’t like us on principle, figure war should be left to the regular Navy. But I did make an excuse to see the articles of the expedition. It’s bona fide, official papers and everything.”

“How about the scientific passengers?”

“A mixed bag. I think Bragdon and Mrs. Lawrie must be the only ones who’ve ever been out of the Solar System. There’s another xenologist, a semanticist, a glossanalyst, a biologist, and half a dozen graduate students to help. I gather none have visited Staura before.”

“Odd.”

“Charlie Wong and I hadn’t either, boss, when you sent us off. They did the same as us, boned up on what information was available and learned the main language with RNA-electro cramming, en route. Anyhow, I can tell you there’s nothing to fear from these academic types. I don’t think any but Bragdon can handle a gun. They don’t much care for us and what we stand for, so relationships were a tad strained even if nothing rude got said. But they’re no threat.”

“They all feel this way?” Heim asked, with a curious little sinking in his spirit.

“No, funny thing, Bragdon and Mrs. Lawrie were both friendly. He remarked once he disagrees with your ideas but has a lot of respect for your guts. And she said she hopes you can come back soon.”

“I can,” Heim said softly. “Oh, I can.”

An hour later, Connie accelerated planetward.

Seated on the bridge, Heim listened to the thrum of the yacht and his own pulse, underlying the flamenco that leaped from Vadász’s guitar beside him. For a while neither man spoke, nor did their eyes leave the spectacle in the viewports.